


anything for the crown

by akisazame



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Questionable Use Of Illusion Magic, Sexual Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26981794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akisazame/pseuds/akisazame
Summary: "W-we c-can't just—" Quentin splutters, trying to keep his voice down but acutely aware of Margo's clever eyes on him from across the table. "We're, like,entertaining guests,and they could j-just walk right in—""They won't care," Eliot says, his hot breath making Quentin shudder. "Bonobos love to fuck. They'd probably know exactly why we're leaving, even if we didn't say a word. We could ward up the throne room, cast Edelson's Obscuring Enchantment, so no one could come in or see us." Eliot's foot brushes against Quentin's calf beneath the table, and Quentin nearly jumps out of his chair. "C'mon, you insufferable nerd, you can't tell me you haven't imagined it."
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 39
Kudos: 113





	anything for the crown

**Author's Note:**

> [11:22 PM] Rubi (Rubick): did quentin ever have sex at castle whitespire?  
> [11:22 PM] Rubi (Rubick): I don't think so  
> [11:23 PM] sylph (akisazame): not that we know of  
> [11:23 PM] sylph (akisazame): but he should've
> 
> this is... a season 1/2 au, i guess?? where the beast doesn't exist but fillory exists, and the gang goes there, and eliot is still high king and quentin is his boyfriend, and margo and julia are the queens because i said so. whatever, who cares, this is pornography.
> 
> thanks [Rubick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubick/) for inspiring this mess, [hoko_onchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi/) for the smut cheerleading, [jessalae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/) for the beta, and [the_northerlies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_northerlies/) for being a good sport. title from "Primadonna" by Marina and the Diamonds.

Quentin was eight years old the first time he read The World in the Walls, and he somehow knew from the moment the Chatwins stepped through the clock that he too would be irrevocably changed by the world of Fillory. He'd read fantasy before, A Wrinkle in Time and The Hobbit and Dealing with Dragons and Charmed Life, but he'd never _felt_ a book the way he'd felt The World in the Walls. He could sense Fillory all around him just as Jane Chatwin did, the phantom tingle of magic against his skin as the Chatwins traveled through the Wormwood, and that feeling reached its peak when the text revealed to Quentin's ravenous imagination the magnificent towers of Castle Whitespire. There was an entire chapter devoted to describing the castle in painstaking detail, which adult Quentin now knows was a sloppy homage to Victor Hugo, but child Quentin was enraptured, each page of description solidifying another brick in the version of Whitespire that he'd believed would only ever exist in his head. He'd started regularly zoning out in class, traveling the halls of the castle in his mind while his teacher talked about multiplication tables; it had gotten so bad that the school had called his parents to talk about Quentin's attention problems— which, you know, in retrospect, had been an astute observation, although in this case for entirely the wrong reasons.

When Quentin had been thirteen and— well, okay, discovered the various exciting uses of his dick, it was incredibly embarrassing but perhaps no surprise that his copious daydreaming about Fillory converted directly into sexually-charged daydreaming about Fillory. For reasons that he hadn't examined then and certainly doesn't want to examine now, his overactive libido had served up seemingly endless scenarios of himself, sometimes exactly as he was and sometimes older, on what he then believed to be his rightful throne as High King in Castle Whitespire, while a beautiful woman, usually Julia or Jane Chatwin or an amalgamation of the two, sat in his lap and kissed him and touched him in that non-specific way of adolescent fantasy, when detail was still unknown but it didn't matter because _anything_ seemed so incandescently good.

The fantasies only expanded as he got older, both because of his discovery of pornographic Fillory fanfiction communities on LiveJournal and because Julia had started dating James. Initially Quentin had thought that James's sudden insertion into his catalog of jerk off material was fueled solely by jealousy, but in the come down after imagining himself, as always, as the High King of Fillory, curled on the cold tile floor beneath his own throne as Fillorian serving boy James sat there instead wearing Quentin's crown while Quentin pressed his mouth to every inch of James's naked skin, begging with eyes and voice and mouth and tongue for permission to suck James's cock, he realized it might be a bit more about James himself than Quentin had been previously willing to admit.

One might think that this realization would make him correct course, to force himself to stop thinking about his friends as sex objects, but every time he tried to think of Jane or Martin Chatwin instead, halfway through Quentin's traitorous brain would transform them back into Julia and James, and before long the fantasy would transmogrify into Queen Julia, back arching against her throne as High King Quentin messily ate her out while King James steadily fucked himself between Quentin's thighs.

The awkward part — well, okay, it was _all_ awkward, but the _most_ awkward part — was that Quentin continued to harbor these exact juvenile fantasies all the way through high school and the entirety of undergrad, made worse by the fact that the three of them lived together in a two room apartment in Morningside Heights for both junior and senior years. James and Julia were generally courteous roommates, but Quentin was a loner nerd who spent most of his nights at home, so he was forced to listen far more often than he would have liked to the sounds of James and Julia passionately fucking through their horribly thin New York City walls, and while he initially tried to drown it out by blasting episodes of Fringe or Orphan Black through his ostensibly noise-cancelling headphones, he eventually resigned himself to shamefully jerking off under the covers while imagining increasingly sordid scenarios set almost exclusively in the Whitespire throne room.

Needless to say, the revelation that Fillory is an actual physical place that he can and has traveled to, and the fact that he and his friends _have_ become actual for real Kings and Queens of Fillory, and that his boyfriend from magical grad school is now the High King — a turn of events that Quentin was only bitter about for approximately five seconds, because he'd never in his life met a person who embodied _high king in his blood_ more than Eliot Waugh — which makes Quentin not only a king but a royal consort— 

Well, it's a _fucking lot._

After over ten years of build up, the reality — what the fuck; seriously, what the fuck! — of being a King of Fillory in a sexual relationship with the High King of Fillory is something that Quentin doesn't think he'll ever entirely process. He certainly can't process the idea that in the real — god!! — unsanitized, non-children's-novel version of Fillory, it would be perfectly acceptable for King Quentin and High King Eliot to tenderly bone in the throne room, either alone or with an audience; no one in the Fillorian court would bat an eye. But Quentin, despite or because of his extensive catalog of fantasies, immediately freezes up when Eliot innocently whispers the suggestion into Quentin's ear one evening, right in the middle of dinner with a delegation of talking bonobos.

"W-we c-can't just—" Quentin splutters, trying to keep his voice down but acutely aware of Margo's clever eyes on him from across the table. "We're, like, _entertaining guests,_ and they could j-just walk right in—"

"They won't care," Eliot says, his hot breath making Quentin shudder. "Bonobos love to fuck. They'd probably know exactly why we're leaving, even if we didn't say a word. We could ward up the throne room, cast Edelson's Obscuring Enchantment, so no one could come in or see us." Eliot's foot brushes against Quentin's calf beneath the table, and Quentin nearly jumps out of his chair. "C'mon, you insufferable nerd, you can't tell me you haven't imagined it."

And _that—_ that is _way_ too close to the truth for Quentin to bear, especially with Julia sitting directly across from him, chatting cordially with the— regent? of the bonobos? He hasn't been paying much attention, especially not in the last several minutes. He knows his face is probably bright red, but there's not much he can do about it when he's surrounded by intellectually advanced monkeys, especially not ones who apparently _love to fuck._ God, how did Eliot even guess? Is Quentin really that much of a cliche? "Can we talk about it later, please?"

There must be something in Quentin's expression or the reediness of his tone that convinces Eliot to reconsider his course of action, because he simply presses a soft kiss to Quentin's jaw before settling back into his own seat and cheerfully asking the bonobo to his right whether he's enjoying the dandelion wine. Eliot's suggestion has tipped the marble into the Rube Goldberg machine of Quentin's mind, and he spends the remaining five courses of dinner discreetly shifting in his chair, trying studiously to ignore the way Eliot keeps glancing knowingly at him every time his left hand brushes against Quentin's right while they eat. The dinner drags on long past dessert, everyone but Quentin engaged in eloquent small talk with the bonobos while Eliot casually holds Quentin's hand, thumb brushing soothingly over Quentin's knuckles in a way that manages to both unwind the anxiety that's coiling in his stomach and stoke the desire that's simmering underneath. 

After what seems like hours, Eliot stands up gracefully, giving a little bow to each half of the bonobo delegation and blowing a kiss across the table to both Julia and Margo before he says in his most stately voice, "It has been lovely dining with all of you, and I would gladly spend several more hours in your gracious company, but I fear it is time for King Quentin and I to retire."

Blood rushes to Quentin's face again as Eliot pulls him to his feet, kissing his knuckles before tugging him towards the door, and it seems like everything will be fine right up until the bonobo who had been seated next to Quentin lets out a loud wolf whistle, which causes the rest of the bonobos to join in, which causes _Margo_ to join in. Quentin wishes he had both hands free so he could cast Mansell's Primary Invisibility. Maybe he could keep casting it forever.

There's a split second where Quentin thinks Eliot is going to make good on the suggestion to fuck in the throne room, but they turn left at the end of the hall instead of right, making their way into the high king's chamber. Once inside, Eliot closes the door and roughly pushes Quentin against it, crushing their mouths together, Eliot's half-hard cock pressing into Quentin's stomach. "You've been holding out on me, baby," he says against Quentin's lips.

"Wh-what?" Quentin manages to say before Eliot kisses him again. Eliot's mouth tastes like dandelion wine and peach compote, earthy and sweet, and his deft magician's fingers are already working at the laces on Quentin's pants.

"I saw that look on your face." Eliot kisses across Quentin's cheek, down his jaw, then bites at his neck. Quentin shivers helplessly under his hands, one snaking up under his shirt while the other keeps plucking at his pant laces. "What have you thought about, hmm? Hiding under the table and sucking my cock during the morning reports? Riding me on the throne? You can tell me, darling, it'll be our secret."

Quentin might be wildly turned on, but that doesn't prevent him from letting out a breathy laugh. "That's, um. Some of the— _fuck, Eliot—_ " His thoughts spontaneously combust as Eliot sucks hard at the junction of his neck and shoulder at the same time as his hand roughly grips Quentin's cock. "S-some of the— _tamer—_ "

Eliot draws back immediately, eyes dark, smile _delighted._ "Oh, _really?_ You naughty boy. Now you _have_ to tell me." He thumbs the head of Quentin's cock, smearing the bead of precome that's already formed. "What delightfully depraved acts have you imagined me doing to you in the throne room?"

"Well," Quentin says, voice cracking, body trembling, "it— it wasn't _just_ you..."

Which is how Quentin tells Eliot, first in broad strokes and then in increasingly elaborate detail, about the fantasy he'd had the day after the Brakebills entrance exam, where Quentin had of course been the High King of Fillory and Eliot had been the King of Loria, visiting on a diplomatic mission, and King Eliot of Loria had immediately prostrated himself before the throne and sworn his everlasting fealty to High King Quentin, and High King Quentin, aloof and articulate, had demanded that King Eliot demonstrate that fealty before the entirety of the court. _Anything you desire,_ King Eliot had said immediately, breathlessly, reverently, which had begun a cascading series of events beginning with King Eliot kissing High King Quentin's boot, followed by King Eliot slowly stripping himself naked one immaculate layer of clothing at a time, followed by him kneeling at the foot of High King Quentin's throne and holding his cock in his mouth while High King Quentin received a long string of Fillorian petitioners inquiring about parcels of land or shares of grain. This part had lasted an agonizingly long time, while Quentin in real life had edged himself in the dark and quiet of his dorm room with the ever-present fear that Penny could return from his tryst with Kady at any moment to find Quentin, naked with his hand on his dick, as he imagined himself fully clothed and wearing a crown, his hand slowly petting through Eliot's disheveled curls while his cock was enveloped in the warm wet of Eliot's mouth as he listened to a Fillorian peasant beg for his uncle's release from debtor's prison or something equally banal and, in retrospect, not even appropriate to the Fillorian setting as Quentin understood it at the time. Eventually High King Quentin had run out of petitioners and real life Quentin had run out of patience, and the fantasy had culminated with High King Quentin ordering his guards to bind King Eliot's hands and feet together, whereupon High King Quentin summoned both King James and Queen Julia and the fantasy became an extension of his old standby from high school except now High King Quentin was fucking King Eliot's mouth while sucking King James's cock while being fucked by Queen Julia wearing a strap-on, all in front of the vigilant eyes of the Fillorian court.

"Holy shit," Eliot says now, on his knees in front of Quentin, who had just come explosively in Eliot's mouth while Eliot had fucked three fingers into his ass. "Holy shit, Quentin."

"Y-yeah," Quentin agrees. His mouth is incredibly dry from all the talking and incoherent noises he's been making, and his back hurts from how hard Eliot has been pushing him against the door. "I, um, have an overactive imagination."

"C'mere," Eliot says, frantically grabbing both of Quentin's wrists and tugging him down to the floor. Quentin collapses, boneless, and Eliot basically shoves Quentin's hand into his pants, his cock hard and throbbing. It takes about a stroke and a half before Eliot comes, making a sound like he's dying, and he continues to pull Quentin down onto the floor with him until they're both lying awkwardly on their sides, sweaty and filthy and panting for breath.

Quentin's brain goes entirely offline for a few minutes, and Eliot doesn't say anything either, though his hand keeps idling brushing through Quentin's hair, fingertips nudging his crown on every pass. Every single moment in Fillory has felt unreal, but this especially is nearly impossible for Quentin to believe: he's a King of Fillory, in love with his best friend, who's the High King of Fillory, and his best friend, _the High King of fucking Fillory,_ loves him back. Plus, you know, the mindblowing sex. 

"Hey, um," Quentin says, voice cracking from overuse, "j-just so we're clear, I don't _actually_ want to fuck your mouth while sucking Julia's ex-boyfriend's dick while Julia fucks me with a strap-on while the whole Fillorian court watches."

Eliot looks confused for a second, then laughs softly, closing the tiny gap between them to kiss Quentin's forehead, right above his brow. "I know, sweetness."

"It's just, you know, I read a _lot_ of explicit Fillory fanfiction in high school, and—"

"Shh," Eliot interrupts, punctuating it with a soft kiss on the lips. "I'm well aware of the delineation between fantasy and reality. That said..." He leans in, pressing their foreheads and noses together, so that Quentin can barely see the wicked grin on Eliot's face. "If there are any... _selections_ you want to incorporate..."

They stay up most of the night talking about it, then fucking about it, then talking about it some more, until Quentin has illustrated a fairly comprehensive picture of what he thinks would be acceptable for both his libido and his anxiety. "And you're _sure_ you don't want to do it in the throne room?" Eliot asks, for at least the tenth time, his head resting on the small of Quentin's back sometime after round three. "We can throw a festival on the castle grounds, clear everyone out for the whole day. Call it the Carnival of the Queens and make Margo and Julia responsible for everything."

"You _can't_ tell Julia about any of this," Quentin insists, wriggling to sit up and fix Eliot with a look despite being thoroughly pinned by his absurdly long body. "I'm serious, El, if she finds out—"

"How are you still this high strung after three orgasms?" Eliot traces an idle finger up and down the back of Quentin's thigh. "It just seemed like the location was a standard fixture in the rich fiction of Quentin Coldwater's sexual fantasies."

"Well, yeah, I mean..." His continued squirming finally convinces Eliot to slide off of Quentin, and Quentin rolls onto his back, staring up at the smooth plaster ceiling that, by all rights, shouldn't even exist. But magic is real, and Fillory is real, and Quentin, by some absurd twist of luck or fate, is both a Magician and a King of Fillory. "It was an escape, you know? From— from everything."

Eliot settles in next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and threads their fingers tightly together. "Yeah. I definitely know." Quentin feels the motion as Eliot takes a steadying breath, the warmth of Eliot's exhale on his neck. "I have an idea, but it might take me a while to pull it off. Do you trust me?"

Quentin turns his head towards Eliot, who's looking at him with an expression of intense consideration, as though Quentin is important, and valued, and worthy of the types of indulgence that had, before Eliot, existed purely in the confines of his imagination. The idea that Eliot wants to give Quentin literally anything at all remains a challenge to Quentin's perpetually low self-esteem, so Eliot wanting to _surprise_ him would be mind-boggling even if Quentin weren't recently and thoroughly fucked. "Yeah, okay," Quentin says, both indulgently and truthfully, "I trust you."

What Quentin hadn't expected when he said he trusted Eliot was that he would have to continue trusting Eliot for weeks on end. "I told you," Eliot says every time Quentin attempts to casually raise the subject again, "my plan is exceedingly elaborate. You simply must be patient, my applejack."

Eliot finally unveils his surprise on a night when both moons are high and full in the sky, casting the high king's chamber in patterns of pale light. Nothing has changed other than the addition of two plain chairs in the center of the room, which Quentin thinks he recognizes from the castle library. "We can wait, if you'd like," Eliot tells him, looking uncharacteristically nervous. "All of the preparation is in place, so all I have to do is activate it. The circumstances are easiest with two full moons, but we don't have to do it now, and most of it won't need refreshing even if—"

"You're making it sound like I'm going to be disappointed," Quentin says, laughing, wrapping his arms around Eliot's waist and pulling him close. He's pretty sure he could never be disappointed by Eliot, but he's not about to say that out loud; he knows from experience the sort of damage that other people's high expectations can do. "You can't tell me you're not dying to show off whatever it is."

"Ah, the mortifying ordeal of being known," Eliot says, kissing the tip of Quentin's nose as he puts his hands on Quentin's shoulders, then pushes him back slightly, so he's standing at arm's length. "Tell me if it's too much, okay?" He lifts his hands and begins performing a graceful series of tuts, the individual movements recognizable to Quentin but in an order he's never seen before. Eliot speaks a word of Welsh as he finishes the last tut, and then— 

They're in the throne room.

Quentin, for whatever reason, looks at his own hands first, holding them in front of his face as if he expects to see right through them. "I— did you, like, Travel us? Is this—"

Eliot closes the gap between them again, grasping both of Quentin's wrists and kissing each palm in turn. "You said you didn't want to use the throne room, and I wouldn't trick you. Well, I wouldn't trick you _like that._ " He lets go so he can quickly perform the Mann Reveal, then holds up his hands in front of Quentin's face. Sure enough, the high king's chamber is still visible through the rectangle of Eliot's fingers. "It took a bit of time to calculate the components for the size of the room, and I had to find a Fillorian substitute for powdered chrysolite, but overall it was actually quite—"

Quentin cuts off Eliot's extremely Quentin-esque ramble with a kiss, slipping his tongue into Eliot's still-open mouth. "It's amazing," Quentin says in the brief pause before kissing him again, sliding his palms over Eliot's shoulders, feeling the minute shift as Eliot's nervousness fades away. " _You're_ amazing," he amends, dragging Eliot down by his neck to get a better angle, scraping his teeth over Eliot's lower lip and exulting in the sharp intake of breath it elicits.

"Mmmm, I appreciate your enthusiasm, my dearest," Eliot says, deftly dodging so that Quentin's next kiss lands on his cheek instead. "Incredibly flattering, as always. But, if you don't mind," he continues, gently shrugging both of Quentin's arms off of his shoulders and taking one small step back, "I did already have a program prepared for tonight."

It's absurd that Quentin already feels tremors of arousal running up and down his body. Eliot hasn't even done anything yet, only said that they're going to do _something._ Is that seriously all it takes? He feels like he's thirteen again. "Do I get a, um, Playbill or something?"

Eliot laughs, the bright, open laugh that he reserves for the people he loves most. "Not quite. But before the curtain rises, we have to perform a little costume change."

The lead-in seems obvious to Quentin, and he's reaching for the hem of his Fillorian linen shirt to give Eliot what Quentin thinks he's asking for, but he freezes mid-motion when he sees Eliot's hands move _up_ instead, carefully removing his high king crown and holding it in the space between them.

"Take yours off, too," Eliot tells him, and the slight authoritative edge in his voice makes Quentin scramble to redirect his hands, mirroring Eliot's motions until he's also holding his own crown, the ridges and indentations in the metal pressing into his palms. Eliot puffs himself up a little, then says, "Kneel, Quentin Coldwater."

Quentin performs the action before the logical portion of his brain can fully comprehend the meaning, which fortunately means that the enormity of what's about to happen here hits him when he's already halfway on the floor. He stares up at Eliot, all three billion feet of him, and feels a little dizzy. "El, you don't have to—"

"Don't interrupt," Eliot interrupts. He turns the crown slowly in his hands, then licks his lips and looks directly into Quentin's eyes. "I, High King Eliot the Spectacular, ever may I reign, do hereby dub thee, from this moment until the next sunrise..." — he pauses for dramatic effect as he gently settles his own crown atop Quentin's head — "High King Quentin the Insatiable."

Quentin feels his ears get hot and knows that his entire face is probably flushed red. "Oh," he manages, exceedingly eloquent as always when faced with the full force of Eliot's desire. He just keeps staring up at Eliot, fidgeting with his own crown in his hands, before remembering that he is in fact still holding his own crown in his hands. "I, um, should I...?"

Eliot smiles indulgently. "That's up to you, Your Majesty. I'm prepared to play any role you desire. Fillorian stable boy, envoy from the Floating Mountain, royal concubine, King of Loria..." His smile turns teasing at the last, and some of the tension in the room breaks as Quentin rolls his eyes, which makes Eliot laugh. "I'll gladly follow whatever script you give me. Just say the word, and I'm yours."

There's an endless array of possibilities in Quentin's mental encyclopedia, and he runs through several of them before coming to a decision. He holds out his hand to Eliot, who instantly helps Quentin back to his feet, then stretches on his tiptoes so he can place his own crown atop Eliot's curls. "King Eliot— of Fillory," he clarifies quickly when he sees the questioning look on Eliot's face, and Quentin's heart swoops in his chest as he finishes, "the Subservient."

The shift is immediate, like the flip of a switch, or the activation of a spell: Eliot drops gracefully to one knee, then takes Quentin's hand and kisses the back. For a second Quentin feels wrong-footed, utterly unprepared for the level of responsibility he's bestowed upon himself, but then Eliot whispers against his knuckles, "May I undress you, Your Majesty?"

And oh, it would be so easy to agree, to use the loophole that Eliot has presented him to his own advantage, an illusion of power just like the illusion that covers every inch of their bedroom. The truth is that, in direct defiance of every fantasy Quentin's brain conjured from the ages of thirteen to twenty-three, Quentin is the one who yearns to submit. Yet now, with the high king's crown on his head, he miraculously finds that it's nearly as easy to do the opposite.

"No," says High King Quentin. "Undress yourself first."

He's looking into Eliot's eyes as he says it, which is how he notices the way his refusal and subsequent order make Eliot's eyes widen and his pupils dilate. He feels, too, the tremor that goes through Eliot's body, invisible to the eye. "Yes, Your Majesty," Eliot says in the low tone he often uses in bed, but with a breathless quality that Quentin's never heard before. It is, he realizes with a heady rush, the same breathlessness that usually comes from his own mouth, and that—

"Slowly." Quentin watches the way the word lands, a thrill going through him when he can _see_ Eliot tremble this time. He drops Eliot's hand and starts backing towards the twin thrones. "Stay there," Quentin says when Eliot starts to stand and follow. "Let me watch you." He sits on the throne that's illusioned to look like Eliot's, just a bit larger than any of the others, then waves his hand in an approximation of the sort of gesture he thinks Eliot would give, if their roles were reversed. "Begin."

Eliot has stripped for Quentin like this before, but there's always been an element of silliness to it, a sense that Eliot is performing an exaggerated role for Quentin's amusement. This is nothing like that, every movement deliberate as he removes each layer, jacket and scarf and vest and shirt and pants, setting each piece aside in a pile on the floor, his gaze locked on Quentin's through as much of the process as possible. He can't stay on his knees for all of it, but he never stands up entirely either, and once Eliot has stripped himself bare, he settles back on his knees again, watching Quentin expectantly for his next order.

It's overwhelming to have the full force of Eliot's attention in this way, so much so that Quentin has to glance away to gather his thoughts. "Good," he manages, relieved when it comes out authoritative and not slightly panicked. "You can come closer now. Oh, and," he adds, struck by sudden inspiration, "bring your scarf."

There's a flash of something across Eliot's face, the suggestion of a knowing smile before his expression goes carefully neutral again. He plucks the scarf from the pile of clothes and then basically crawls the few feet to the throne, the visual of which would probably be funny to Quentin if he weren't so preoccupied by the intensity of Eliot's continued eye contact. It makes Quentin feel like he's already being touched all over, Eliot's gaze manifesting as a physical sensation that makes him crave actual contact. Quentin's intention had been to remain aloof, a high king as untouchable as Eliot often makes himself out to be, but as soon as Eliot is kneeling at the foot of Quentin's throne he can't stop himself from reaching out to brush his thumb over the apple of Eliot's cheek. Eliot makes a soft noise in response, leaning into the touch, and Quentin guides him forward until his head is resting on Quentin's knee.

"Here is what I would like from you," Quentin says. His fingers gently brush through the hair at the nape of Eliot's neck, and he hopes it's as soothing for Eliot as it is for him. "I want the whole Fillorian court to know how good you are for me. To see how their king serves their high king. But I don't want to see them." He nods at the scarf in Eliot's hand, and Eliot looks down at it as though he's just now understanding Quentin's intention. This part is pure performance; they'd discussed this before, weeks ago, the idea of only playing at exhibitionism. "Can you do that for me?"

Another flash on Eliot's face, this time of annoyance. "Of course, but..." He clears his throat in a way that Quentin thinks might be pointed. "May I serve you privately first? Here in the _throne room?_ "

Quentin almost laughs; of course Eliot would be mad that he put in all this effort on his fancy illusion just for Quentin to insist on being blindfolded. Pretending they were in the throne room had been the original reason Eliot had suggested a blindfold, back when they'd talked everything through. "Yeah," he says, soft, before catching himself. "I mean, um— I suppose I can grant you this one indulgence."

"I'll be so good for you," Eliot tells him, shifting to set the scarf aside on the floor beside the throne, then running both hands up the inside of Quentin's thighs. The word _good_ zings through Quentin, crackling like lightning, nearly as potent as when it's directed towards him. Eliot must notice, because he leans in to mouth at Quentin's cock through his pants. "Just want to make you feel good, Your Majesty."

"Then you should—" Quentin's words dissolve into a gasp as Eliot sucks hard through the fabric. "You should _really_ touch me." He almost adds a _please,_ and has to bite his tongue to keep it back.

He'd been prepared for Eliot to keep him mostly clothed, for the sake of the power dynamic; he hadn't been prepared for Eliot to stare up at him while he undid the laces on Quentin's pants with his _teeth._ His hands keep running up and down Quentin's thighs as he does it, his thumbs a soft pressure along his inseam in a way that Quentin hadn't realized could feel so pleasurable. It must be magic, he thinks as Eliot finally moves one hand up to free Quentin's cock, hot and mostly hard against Eliot's palm; no matter how Eliot touches him, or where, it always feels like nothing Quentin has ever felt before. He can feel Eliot's breath ghosting over his skin as he murmurs, "What is your command?"

"Your mouth." Another _please_ almost slips out; he's so used to begging that it's genuinely difficult to turn it off. Eliot obeys right away, licking a stripe up the underside. " _Fuck—_ I want you to suck me while you open me up with your fingers and— and if you do it well, we'll summon the court to watch you fuck me."

Eliot squeezes his eyes shut rapturously as he ducks his head to take the head of Quentin's cock into his mouth, his nearly inaudible groan evident from the vibrations of his tongue. For Quentin, the thrill of exhibitionism only exists in the realm of fantasy, but for Eliot, the kink is very much real. _It's such a shame, you know,_ he'd breathed into Quentin's ear, that night when they'd talked about everything, while he'd been steadily fucking Quentin from behind, _that I can't show off how well you take my cock._ It's incomprehensible to Quentin, who's spent so much of his life faded into the background, ordinary, unremarkable, that Eliot truly sees him as something beautiful enough to share, even if that desire comes laced with a heavy dose of narcissism.

The hand of Eliot's that isn't currently holding Quentin's cock in place tugs down on Quentin's pants until they're puddled around his ankles, followed by a one-handed tut for lube. "Please keep talking to me, Your Majesty," Eliot says, rubbing his nose and cheek along the side of Quentin's cock as he speaks. One slick finger circles Quentin's rim, teasing. "Am I pleasing you?"

Quentin doesn't think it's possible for Eliot to not please him; even when sex between them goes wrong — like, really objectively bad — the underlying joy of being with Eliot still remains. That, of course, is not what Eliot wants to hear. "Passable," Quentin lies through his teeth. "I know you can do better. Don't you want to give the court your best performance? Don't you want to show them what a good king you are?"

Eliot makes a small sound as he takes Quentin's cock back into his mouth, and Quentin makes his own much louder sound in response as the head brushes Eliot's soft palate. He relaxes back into the throne, which he's pretty sure now is one of his favorite chairs from the library, irrevocably ruined for non-sexy pursuits, as Eliot eases a finger into him. For a while he loses focus, trapped between the sensations of Eliot's mouth and Eliot's fingers, unable to give a more nuanced performance than _yes_ and _more_ and _good._ At least, somehow, he manages to not say _please._

The pleasure of it ratchets higher and higher, a full-body tingling under the skin, and when Eliot begins spreading him open with a second finger Quentin has to order him to stop sucking his cock. Eliot obeys immediately, mouth moving to the inside of Quentin's thigh, forcing his legs further apart. "That's good," Quentin whines, shifting down a little more in the throne to meet the thrust of Eliot's fingers, "but I think there's better places you can put your mouth, don't you?"

Eliot hums thoughtfully, twists his fingers, makes Quentin shiver. "As you command," he says, grinning as he ducks his head to lick Quentin's balls, then lower still to tongue at his rim. It makes Quentin _whine,_ which, probably not very high kingly, but he knows how much Eliot likes it when he's loud. He lets his eyes drift shut, lost in sensation, as Eliot spreads his fingers, adds a third. "Your Majesty," Eliot says, after some indeterminate amount of time has passed, "may I blindfold you now?"

Quentin's eyes flutter open, blinking until the image of Eliot resolves. He looks blissed out, pupils blown wide, his cock mostly hard between his legs. "You haven't been touching yourself," Quentin observes, not really caring if it's, like, totally true. It's certainly true _right now,_ with one of Eliot's hands occupied and the other gripping hard on one of Quentin's knees.

"No, Your Majesty," Eliot says, in a way that makes Quentin think that maybe Eliot really hasn't. Quentin hadn't given that order, but— Eliot doesn't give Quentin that order anymore, either. He doesn't have to. "That's all for you."

As much as Quentin would fucking _love_ to suck Eliot hard — his mouth is watering just thinking about it — the logistics of it without altering their seating arrangements are too difficult for his sex-addled brain to contemplate. "Let me watch you get yourself ready for me. Then you can blindfold me and summon the court."

Eliot quirks an eyebrow at Quentin before withdrawing his fingers, making Quentin gasp, then flicks his wrist in a cleaning tut before taking himself in hand. Quentin doesn't think he'll ever get over it, Eliot's stupidly big hand on his stupidly big dick, and he doesn't even realize that his mouth is hanging open until Eliot swipes up the bead of precome on the tip and reaches up to slide his fingers into Quentin's mouth. It's not nearly as good as actually sucking Eliot's cock, not even _close_ , but he swirls his tongue over the pads of Eliot's fingertips, tasting him there.

"Okay," Eliot says, withdrawing his fingers, Quentin helplessly chasing after them before remembering himself. Eliot laughs, far more softly and fondly than is appropriate for the scenario. "I need both hands to blindfold you, Your Majesty."

"S-so do it," Quentin says, with all the authority he can muster while his legs are still spread wide in a chair that's magicked to look like— that _is_ the throne of the High King of Fillory. Eliot reaches for the blindfold, summoning it into his hand with a simple gesture, then stretches up on his knees to drape it over Quentin's eyes. It's not complete darkness, moonlight leaking under the edges and through the loose weave of the delicate fabric, but it's enough to shut off any lingering logical subroutines in Quentin's brain. "Kiss me," he gasps, once he feels Eliot tie the knot at the back of his head, startled by how quickly Eliot obliges, crushing their mouths together.

Eliot pulls away, but not far; Quentin can still feel his breath against his lips. "The court is coming in now," Eliot narrates, deep-voiced and gravelly, pitched for Quentin's ears alone. One of Eliot's thumbs smooths over the fabric of the blindfold, while the fingers of his other hand trace Quentin's rim, pull away, return coated with lube so three can slide back inside. "They're lining the walls, everyone you chose to come watch. They're all looking at you, Your Majesty, every single one."

That seems wrong to Quentin; surely they'd want to look at Eliot instead. Eliot, who's so effortlessly beautiful, graceful and elegant and somehow, unbelievably, Quentin's. "Then you'd better give them what they came here to see."

"Mmm," Eliot says, pulling his fingers out again, kissing Quentin's knee. "How do you want me, Your Majesty?"

"Just— just like this," Quentin gasps, wriggling down a little more in the throne. It's far from the most comfortable position, and his neck and back will definitely complain afterwards, but the whole _point_ is fulfilling teenage Quentin's highly impractical desire to get fucked in a Whitespire throne. "You on your knees, and my legs—"

"Yes," Eliot says, pulling the leg he'd kissed up over his own shoulder, then doing the same with the other. Quentin digs his heels into Eliot's back, pulling him closer, until he can feel the head of Eliot's cock pressing against his entrance. "Are you ready?"

Yet again the _please_ comes to Quentin's lips, and he has to bite it back. "Yes, do it, show everyone how good you are for me—"

Any other words disintegrate in Quentin's mouth as Eliot pushes in, slow, exactly how Quentin likes it. The motion pushes Quentin down and back in the throne, which makes his back ache until Eliot slides a hand underneath him, propping him up somewhat. "You feel so fucking good," Eliot says, rubbing his cheek against Quentin's leg. "Like I was made for you."

It's another deviation from their usual script — _you take me so well, like you were made for me_ — and it makes Quentin whine as Eliot bottoms out inside him. "You were, you _were_ made for me." Quentin feels hot all over; he wants Eliot to touch him, but he doesn't want to lose the grounding feeling of his strong hands against his back and on his leg, so he does it himself instead. "You make me feel so fucking good. Sh-show the whole kingdom how well you fuck me."

Eliot makes a noise that sounds like a growl and starts _fucking_ him, driving Quentin back into the throne and the cushion of Eliot's hand on his spine, mouth and tongue and teeth on Quentin's leg. Quentin's brain fully disconnects from his mouth, making speech impossible apart from a steady refrain of Eliot's name. Without vision all of his other senses are heightened, which means he's hyperfocused on the sounds they're making, filthy, skin-against-skin, and he imagines the entire throne room full of people watching, who can't take their eyes away from their insatiable high king. The attention of the crowd makes his skin tingle, and he feels like he should be embarrassed but he's not, not at all, because Eliot is taking care of him, Eliot is making him feel incandescent, Eliot is the only one who matters, the only one that Quentin— 

"Eliot— El, please," Quentin gasps, barely aware of what he's saying, the facade falling away, "please, I need—"

"Say it, gorgeous, tell everyone—"

"I need to see you—"

Eliot could, so easily, take Quentin's words as part of the— the _scene_ or whatever they're doing, but somehow he doesn't. He slows, and then stops, and everything is still apart from the trembling of their bodies as Eliot's gentle hands slide the blindfold off of Quentin's face.

Quentin doesn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't quite _this:_ Eliot's face within an inch of his own, staring at him with naked adoration, like he's never seen Quentin before. And Quentin sort of feels the same way, the reality of Eliot Waugh more vibrant and perfect than the facsimile Quentin had been holding in his mind's eye. He looks unraveled, like he often does during sex, but also so tender as he brushes Quentin's damp hair back from his face. "Hi, beautiful."

"Hi," Quentin says. He feels punch-drunk, high on endorphins. Absurdly, he adds, "I missed you."

"I've been right here the whole time, precious boy," Eliot tells him, leaning in to press his lips to Quentin's throat. The movement sends a tremor through Quentin's whole body as Eliot's cock shifts inside him and Quentin's own cock is pressed between their stomachs. "Shhh. Tell me what you need."

"You," Quentin replies instantly, his voice a little strained. Eliot laughs softly, shifting his hips again, making Quentin moan. "Can— can we lie down?"

Eliot peels his hand away from where it had been clutching Quentin's leg and makes a quick gesture; out of the corner of his eye, Quentin sees what he thinks are the pillows and blankets from their bed, phasing through the veil of Eliot's illusion and floating over to rest on the tile floor in front of the thrones. "I'm going to pull out to move you, okay?" Eliot says, pulling Quentin's face into his chest as he slides out. Quentin squirms a little in his grip, trying to maneuver his feet onto the ground, but Eliot tightens his hold. "Shh, shh, I've got you," he murmurs into Quentin's hair as he gently shrugs Quentin's legs off of his shoulders, repositioning them around his waist before sliding his other hand down to Quentin's ass and just— fucking _lifts_ him, like it's nothing.

"You're cheating," Quentin says, grinning wildly into Eliot's chest. "You're using magic, this is so cheap—"

"Mmm, no." Eliot carries Quentin over to the blankets and carefully lowers him onto them. It's not as comfortable as the bed would be, but it's definitely better than being folded up in the throne-chair. "I'm just very big," he says, settling on top of Quentin, leaning down to nip at his jaw, "and very strong," and he moves his hand from Quentin's ass to wrap around his cock, "and you love that about me."

"Fuck, yeah, I do." Quentin rocks his hips up into Eliot's grasp; Eliot's hands always feel infinitely better than his own. "I love lots of things about you. C'mon, please, I need—"

"I know, I know," Eliot says, pressing kisses to the side of Quentin's face as he arranges Quentin beneath him, lines himself up and slides back inside.

It's not anything like it was back on the throne, Eliot's steady thrusts replaced by gentle rolls of his hips as he focuses on working Quentin's cock, matching the rhythms, all while gazing adoringly at Quentin's face, into Quentin's eyes. It makes Quentin feel even more breathless than everything that came before, because in all of his endless fantasies, in the Whitespire throne room or anywhere else, no one had ever, _ever_ looked at him like that.

Quentin squeezes his eyes shut, overwhelmed, shifting his hips to urge Eliot to move faster. "That's it," Eliot says, speeding up with both his hand and his cock, because Eliot knows what Quentin needs, Eliot is perfect— "That's right, my love, come for me, come on—"

And Quentin does, gasping, shouting wordlessly as he spills all over Eliot's hand, feeling the way Eliot's movements stutter when Quentin clenches down on him. He doesn't stop entirely, fucking Quentin through it, until Eliot is curling his body to press his forehead to Quentin's shoulder, making the bright, happy sound he always makes when he comes, and before Quentin's eyes the throne room illusion flickers and fades away.

They lie there for a moment, Eliot still propping himself up with one arm so that he's not crushing Quentin with his entire body weight. Then, with what might be only a theatrical show of great effort, Eliot pulls out and rolls onto his back, immediately reaching for Quentin's arm and twining his arm around it, grasping Quentin's hand and pulling it to his mouth to kiss Quentin's knuckles.

Quentin hums contentedly, does a one-handed tut to clean the come off his stomach before rolling towards Eliot, throwing a leg over his legs. "Have I told you lately that you're incredible?"

"Mmm, once or twice," Eliot says, smiling softly against Quentin's fingers. "Did we want to narrow it down to some specific categories? Most Impressive Illusion Magic From A Physical Kid? Best Fulfillment Of Adolescent Fantasy? Biggest Cock?"

"I think that last category name needs some workshopping," Quentin says, tugging his hand free from Eliot's so he can plant both hands in the blankets and lean up for a kiss. "Seriously, I can't believe you did all that."

" _I_ can't believe I did all that and you immediately said you didn't want to see it." Eliot sniffles, so exaggerated that it has to be fake. "After all my hard work. A lot of not-chrysolite had to _die_ for that illusion, Quentin."

"Forget what I said," Quentin says, laughing. "You're actually the worst. Totally insufferable. Can't believe I put up with you." He leans in to press their foreheads together, and the crown he'd forgotten he was wearing clangs against the crown that's somehow still perfectly seated on Eliot's head. Quentin reaches up to touch his — Eliot's, technically — which also hasn't budged. "Did you magic these in place?"

Eliot reaches up and taps his — Quentin's — crown, which doesn't move at all. "The royalty part was important to you. It'll come off if you remove it with both hands. No, don't," Eliot says, when Quentin starts reaching up. "Keep it on. I love when you wear my things."

"Technically, it's still mine," Quentin tells him, smile spreading wide on his face. "Until the next sunrise, remember?"

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me for eternal screaming about these two idiots on [tumblr](https://akisazame.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
